Going to the hall closet I grab the largest and oldest top sheet I can find. Then I very gently, so as not to wake the swooned-princess, shimmy it under his head and down until it’s poking out from under his large feet. I take off his shoes and socks and leave them at the front door where I prefer them to be while also remembering to thank the good Lord for the small, immeasurable mercy of Ash not having stinky feet. Finally the shirt comes off and the voyeur in me decides to take just a moment to study his well defined, tanned and tattooed chest while free of his cocky gaze.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been so free to blatantly check out his many tattoos. His head would explode if he really knew how hot I thought they were. When I was still able to go outdoors I’d sit for hours on the sand, hypnotized by the way the inked skin would seemingly crawl across his wet body as the bright rays of the sun hit him just so as he surfed. The sun highlighted the ones that ran across his chest and back but when he threw his arms out for balance, his forearms and biceps would steal the show.
Looking down on the tan, lean body sprawled across my living room floor I realize that I can recall with almost perfect clarity when each and every one of those beautiful tattoos was placed. He’d call me and say, “its time,” which is code for “I need your hand because I’m about to get a needle shoved into my delicate man-skin and even though we both know how tough I am I’m also fine to admit that I’m afraid of tattoo needles and therefore I need your hand.” The vulnerability he showed to me is the only reason I ever went (as far as he was concerned. The real reason was his hot bod….SHHH!).
As I’m looking (ogling) him I see some new art that I haven’t noticed until today. The words are cleverly intertwined with some of the older ones as if meant to be hidden from sight. The only reason they are obvious now is because they’re newer, fresher, so the color is brighter than their surrounding cohorts. I’m suddenly sad as I realize that this is the first time I wasn’t there to hold his hand when he needed me. Then I wonder who was?
Daily, I’m becoming more and more aware that I’m not really there for Ash like I used to be, that for a long time it’s been the other way around. He’s always taking care of me while getting nothing in return. When I add this reality to the fear I have of him getting sick of me and my plethora of problems, I feel crippled with the anxiety that our time is almost up.
Before I have the opportunity to become overwhelmed by self loathing and just as I’m squinting to read the small print on his chest, he starts to stir. If I want to get him settled I need to move quickly. So I pull up the corners of the sheet and begin dragging him down the hall as fast as my little feet will shuffle. There is a list of reasons why I like hardwood flooring but the ease at which I am currently dragging my beast of a best friend across them has got to be at the very top of that list, followed closely by sock sliding.
Lucky for me the dragging does the trick and lulls the rock star back to sleep. He never stirs again, not even after I’ve lifted the blanket and hauled him across the uneven threshold onto the much more comfortable carpeted, bedroom floor. Now that he’s peacefully slumbering on a softer surface I leave him be and go grab his favorite blanket. When I get back to my room I’m struck by the sweetest picture of friendship. Master has settled in next to Ash, spooning him with one long doggy arm thrown over Ash’s waist as if to say, “I’m here for you brother.” They look so cute and contented I almost want to lie down and snuggle up with them, but almost isn’t enough when put up against my amazing bed. It’s not even a fair fight, bed wins every time.
As I cover them up with Ash’s favorite quilt he reaches out his hand and smoothes it against my cheek in an incredibly sensual caress. It’s impressive he can be so smooth considering his current level of intoxication. I lay my hand over his and rub my cheek into his rough palm like a puppy seeking more attention, knowing that tomorrow he’ll never remember any of this anyway.
Only, when I look down at him do I notice he’s staring back at me with eyes as smooth and bright as a piece of golden sea glass abandoned on shore. The expression he’s sharing is one I’m not yet familiar with coming from him. Desire. As I gaze back at him I’m fully aware that he’s probably dreaming so I do what feels right in the moment and turn my head into his palm where I lightly feather soft kisses into his warm hand. As my lips roam across his skin he moans something I can’t decipher, drops his hand to the ground like the thousand pound weight it’s sure to feel like, and falls swiftly back into a deep comatose sleep.
***
Master and I are cuddled up in our customary corner of the couch when Ashton comes moaning down the hall the next afternoon. He looks like… well… bad. If BAD were a person, his face would be the definition. He joins us on the couch, curling his long body into the ever popular fetal position while searching for some kind of comfort. I have pity on him and immediately get up to get him my go to hangover kit of ibuprofen and one of my few remaining extra large bottles of Smart Water. When I get back, Master’s moved to the floor under Ashton’s limp hand hoping in vain to get pet. Good luck boy. You’re definitely barking up the wrong tree today, buddy. As often as Ashton comes in drunk or buzzed during the night, I can’t remember the last time I saw him in this state the day after, the state most commonly referred to as Hell.
“Thanks, hotpants,” he says through a hoarse whisper, grimacing from the loud sound of his own voice banging around in his thick skull. I nod my head, curl back into my spot in the corner of the couch and look at him as he closes his eyes, hoping for a reprieve from his self-induced pain. “When you’re ready we can talk about what happened last night.” I say quietly from my corner.
“What do you mean?” His eyes are still firmly shut, whisper still in effect.
“I was hoping you could tell me? You came barging in here, covered in lipstick, swaying like a sailor just off his boat, yelling at all my gamer-guys. You weren’t you.” I reach over, unable to help my needy hands and start feathering my fingers through his thick caramel colored locks, waiting for a reply while hopefully giving him some much needed comfort. Instead, he just shrugs his shoulders, too exhausted to consider his actions and their effects on me or us.
As I’m looking him over I’m reminded of the new tattoos I found last night and start tracing the delicate lettering with my fingertips, causing tiny goose bumps to pop up all over his flesh wherever my fingers travel. He moans in approval and I continue, wanting him to take the comfort I’m offering. Upon closer inspection it appears the words start at the bottom of his left wrist and worm their way up, around and through the other tattoos until they reach his heart in the center of his well formed chest. The letters are a tiny script and I can’t make them out because of how we’re sitting but I make a mental note to ask him later or get some magnifiers, whatever comes first.
I continue gliding my middle finger from point A to point B like some kind of ritualistic prayer of affection; up and down, up and down, up and down until he’s lightly snoring beneath my nurturing touch. More than anything I want Ashton happy. He’s had such a hard life and my job as best friend has always been to make it better. Just like when we were kids.
***
“Ashton, wake up! Wake up! It’s Christmas! You have to go home before my dad finds you in here!”
“Your dad loves me Cee. He’s not going to care,” he says rolling over and shoving his head under my pillow before mumbling back the rest of his points, “besides, I’m positive my parents aren’t going to care. My dad already told me I’m not getting any presents anyway. He said, and I quote, ‘twelve is too old for that kind of kid stuff’. Now, let me sleep, I’m a growing boy. Go have your Christmas.”
“Ok. Fine, I’ll be back. Don’t go,” why I even say that I have no clue. He’ll sleep til’ at least noon, I have no immediate worries about him going anywhere. I run to the kitchen and find my dad awake making our traditional Christmas morning Monkey Bread. The smell alone sends Christmas cheer through me, especially this year. Da
d’s been doing so much better since he finished chemo two months ago and is in such a great place. His doctor told us it looks like they got the cancer and he may be in remission, we’ll know for sure after his next appointment. Needless to say, Christmas came to our house two months ago, so anything we get today is just icing on that proverbial baby Jesus birthday cake!
“Morning Princess, Happy Christmas!” He knows I love saying Happy Christmas, ‘cause that’s what they say in England and I just think it sounds so much more fun! “So, where’s Ashton? I know he’s here. When he comes through your window it’s like he’s wearing hooves for feet or something. So much banging about,” he says all this with laughter in his eyes while mixing together the cinnamon-sugar, buttery goodness at the counter.
“I was pretty sure you knew, just so we’re clear. I wasn’t trying to be sneaky daddy, you know me better than that. After last year’s incident at school, I’m all about the honesty, believe me. I learned my lesson. No more hiding in bathrooms. No more secrets. Got it.” He looks at me with his you-better-have eyes and then smiles. I love that he always finishes things off with his kind, reassuring smile. There’s never a sting left by his words.
“Anyway, Ash just told me his parents aren’t doing Christmas this year. Something about it being kid stuff and he’s too old. I got him something but I was hoping there was maybe something for me that wasn’t too girly that we can change out and give to him. One thing just doesn’t feel enough like Christmas, ya know?”
Dad wraps me in his warm, robe-covered arms, kisses the top of my head, squeezes me tight and says, “Don’t worry about it. I took care of presents for Ashton already. I overheard his dad in the driveway the other day saying something to his mom about Christmas not coming this year and since Ashton’s like another son to me I want him to know he’s welcome here anytime and that he’s family. But, more importantly I want him to know that he’s safe here. All kids should have a safe place.”
He gives me one last squeeze and pulls me back so he can look me in the eye before finishing, “You, Princess, are a wonderful friend and I’m proud of you for taking such good care of Ashton the way that you do, the way you always have. But, eventually we’ll have to talk about the sleeping situation in that room, at least once those hormones get going. Now, go wake that boy up. We have presents to open!”
“P.S. daddy? You’re gross,” as I’m walking back to my room I’m mumbling under my breath about him not needing to worry about my hormones, he needs to just mind his own business and worry about his own hormones. When I hear him laughing at me I get even madder! My real problem is that every time I hear the word hormone I think of whore’s moaning since Richie Baker said that’s what the word really means… right before he got kicked out of sex ed. Anyway, now I can’t stand that word, especially hearing it from my sweet dad while directed at me. It’s just wrong.
I open the door to my room and spend the next twenty minutes cajoling the sleepiest human alive out of bed. He’s finally up and we’re in the living room sitting on the floor next to the most beautiful Frasier fir tree I’ve ever seen. It’s decorated to within an inch of its wobbly life, held upright by fishing wire strung to hooks in the wall. There are dozens of homemade ornaments littering its branches, all made by us three kids. Every year we spend winter break doing crafts at our kitchen table while my dad works, and this year’s been no exception. Ash wins for weirdest ornament this year as he took a picture of me, Connor and him and traded our faces out with different Beatles members. I got Paul McCartney and he gave Connor George Harrison while he gave himself the “very cool” John Lennon. Whatever, he only chose Lennon because Ashton said he was the biggest ladies man and was therefore, “most like him”. That picture is front and center as we get ready to sit and open our gifts and don’t tell him but, I love it… and he’s right, the ladies love the Ashton.
Connor, Ash and I all have a plate of fresh, just-out-of-the-oven, steaming hot, monkey bread (also known as the yummiest baked good on earth) in front of us. Dads got a fresh cup of coffee (black) and his camera (Nikon) at the ready. Our gifts are coordinated by paper that dad carefully selected for each of us based on our color preferences in order to make the handing out as efficient and fun as possible. He truly thinks of everything. Have I mentioned before that he’s awesome?
Ashton first looks at his pile and then at me, wearing a grin rivaling that of the Jokers, only it’s not the big and creepy kind of grin the Joker wears but more of the wild, excited I’m ready to get in trouble kind. Dad shouts, “GO!” and we each start unwrapping like this is the first time in all of our lives we’ve ever seen a gift. Dad’s thoughtfulness is present in each item unwrapped, showing us how much he listens when we talk and that he truly pays attention to what’s going on in our lives even when he’s busy or too sick.
Connor gets all sorts of new surfing gear, the biggest gift being a new board, and he’s “stoked”. I get clothes, a sewing machine for me to practice turning all of my drawings into reality and my favorite, my yearly gift card to Victoria’s Secret. My Aunt Joanie usually comes to town once a year just so her and I can go to the mall and shop like girls love to do. Usually I have to pick out jammies and bath robes that are too big for my tiny frame, but not this year. This year I’ll finally be able to buy a beautiful BRA! OH, and maybe even some matching panties! WOOHOO for BOOBIES (that should be on a keychain for puberty)!
As I’m stacking my loot back under the tree in perfect little piles I look over and see Ashton staring at his gifts like they’re a mirage. He’s holding the one thing he’s consistently talked about for the last several years, a Fender beginner’s acoustic guitar. It looks beautiful in his long, wiry, underdeveloped arms. It’s got a mahogany exterior and a light spruce top that compliments the gold color of his eyes. Never before have I felt this happy, not even the first time I went to Victoria’s shop of secrets. His happiness is heavy in the air, like it’s an actual physical object to be touched and handled with care. It makes sense now why my dad wanted me to buy him a book of guitar music. I’m so glad I listened because now I know that Ashton’s got a real dream he can rely on and I, more than anyone, know how dreams can help keep us present and focused in our lives. This gift is a gift that will bring peace. It’s perfect, just like all of my guys.
***
Ashton’s been sleeping on my lap for the past hour and a half and I’ve been trying incredibly hard to write this chapter on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy techniques, but unfortunately the current sexual tension that has oozed into our friendship/best-relationship-of-my-life has once again raised its annoying head like the stalker it’s turning out to be, leaving me tingly with a desire I’ve heretofore not been acquainted with.
Without even realizing I’m doing it I’ve started running my frisky hands through Ash’s soft hair, subtly trying to pry him back to the land of the living. The lonely feelings I’ve used to keep me safe these past couple of years are starting to box me in, and I can feel my spirit trying to take over, fighting back against the lid of the self-imposed boundaries I’ve created.
More than anything, I’m hoping that after having the “you know what” I’ll feel less lonely and more fulfilled, not only emotionally, but physically as well. Living on my own personal isolation island for as long as I have is starting to feel cumbersome and making me tense, as if I’m lifting above my head the unsteady weight of my wobbling virginity on a fragile glass cake platter, about ready to fall down a flight of uneven, slutty stairs.
Encouraged by the thoughts rambling around in my mind, my hands start to stray from the bountiful waves they’ve been playing in to the more solid terrain of his hard pectoral muscles. Trust me when I tell you that I’m in such a lusty state right now that I’ve begun to sweat. There’s a trail of tiny wet beads forming along the high ridge of my forehead as my eyes watch my fingers smooth along the tight, beautiful contours of the pectorals in front of me that are so well-formed from their years of fighting heavy surf alon
gside my brother.
Just as I’d anticipated, Ashton starts to stir beneath my exceedingly friendly fingers and my excitement over the possible things to come has me suddenly giddy with a schoolgirl’s anticipation. Though I realize that it would be incredibly wrong, downright irresponsible, to continue down this friends with benefits path that we’re on, the ache I feel inside is in charge and right now it’s spurring me forward desperate to fill my careless and reckless needs.
Ash smiles in his sleep and I can only hope it’s because he’s dreaming of all the naughty things he’s preparing to teach me to do to him or better yet, the things he’s preparing to do to me.
So, you can imagine my surprise when his eyes finally flutter open and the exact opposite of my lusty campaigning happens. He bolts upright with the twin looks of shock and disappointment warring in his eyes, like I’ve been violating him and all of his many virtues. HA!
“What the hell do you think you’re doing Cee? I’m sleeping here.” Master comes to his side in a show of solidarity, letting me know, not so subtly, that he’s still sore with me for not finding him a lady friend. If he could make words they’d be, “payback’s a bitch, huh?”
“I just wanted to...” he puts his hand up and cuts me off before I can finish my thought and instantly I’m regretting my behavior because clearly it is NOT going to be reciprocated. The word embarrassed only slightly embodies the deep depth of humiliation that I’m beginning to feel.
“Well? You just wanted to what? Use me for sex? Exploit our friendship so that you know longer feel empty and alone? Am I getting close yet because I can keep going here Cee?” Sometimes I hate how well he knows me and my psyche.
Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl... Page 9